


The Right Sort

by Atlantic_Seaglass



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: AU, Gen, New Friends, No Beta, Wartime Adventure, head canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:54:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlantic_Seaglass/pseuds/Atlantic_Seaglass
Summary: The demands of national defence in times of war have a way of bringing unlikely people together for common purposes. Or, Blake is recruited for a mission outside of his usual duties, alongside a soldier he has rather literally just met.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't quite my first foray into this fandom, but it is the first to see the light of day. I beg indulgence for this not starting out from Blake's point of view. This little dollop of story didn't actually begin as a canon piece but it became one when the characters themselves insisted. So. Here we are.
> 
> As ever, this is posted essentially as written.

Malaria was nothing to be trifled with. Over the weeks since he'd been packed off for home from Singapore in order to properly recuperate. Lieutenant J.P. Hetherington, Royal Engineers, had found it an illness he was perfectly happy never to suffer from again. The fever, the delirium, and the exhaustion had been wretched; bad enough individually, they were truly horrid in combination.

At least, he allowed, his stay in the Royal Herbert Hospital hadn't been too badly disrupted by German bombing. Certainly not as it would have been two years earlier. That was something he'd become grateful for, as the clutches of illness eased. He was equally grateful for the eventual clean bill of health, which he was granted just that morning. Being confined first to a bed and then to a hospital ward, didn't suit him in the least.

At some point during his convalescence, his uniform had been laundered and repaired for him. Putting it on again after so long in hospital clothes felt strange but he welcomed the scratch of the wool serge against his skin. He'd lost a noticeable amount of weight so the battledress hung loose on him. Hetherington was a large man when fully healthy, with broad shoulders and a square, sturdy build. He had a way of dominating any room he was in, simply by virtue of his size. In the wake of his bout of malaria, however, he seemed wilted and diminished.

There could be no doubt the illness had left its marks but his was a naturally buoyant personality. It wouldn't be long before he regained the weight and lost the pallor that still hung over his face. All he needed was to be increasingly active and, more importantly, in fresh, outside air, and on the first troopship back to Singapore to rejoin his division. Being back with his company, his friends... that'd sort him right out.

A message had been left for him with the nursing sisters that, on his discharge from hospital, he was to be at the Army and Navy Club at one o'clock, promptly. A senior officer wished to see him. The name of that officer was a surprise to him. He'd not seen that fellow since RMA Woolwich had sent its cadets out into the Army when war broke out, whether they were trained or not. It was equally surprising to note that Colonel Dewe was now Major-general Dewe.

The appointment was one Hetherington was determined to keep. Colonel Dewe wasn't one to tolerate tardiness. No artilleryman worth his salt would. So Hetherington made his way to Pall Mall as quickly as he could manage, which was no mean feat. The Royal Herbert was well-placed outside of London to allow quiet convalescence but that also meant getting back into London proper took time. His saving grace was caging a lift with an RASC lorry on its way to Inglis Barracks.

He was therefore more or less on time when he reached the club. The journey had exhausted him, even though he'd done comparatively little walking, so he was privately very glad to be shown directly to the dining room where his former maths instructor sat in a corner, perusing a newspaper. The rank insignia on his shoulders had created something of a bubble around him. No one sat at any of the tables immediately nearest. As it ever did, Hetherington's eyes rested on the two rows of medal ribbons sewn onto the left breast of the general's jacket, particularly on the white and purple one with the rosette. If he was honest, he was more than a little in awe of the man beneath those ribbons.

Then the moment passed. Dewe's often-unsettling ability to know when somebody was approaching showed itself; Hetherington had hardly entered the room and Dewe was already looking up and in his direction.

It had only been a little over three years since he'd last seen the colonel – no, general – yet in those years, Dewe had aged noticeably. His brown hair had gone grey and distinct worry lines creased his face. The last war had scoured the young man from him, Hetherington knew, having seen the few photographs of Dewe from those days, but he'd managed to retain some vitality. Now he seemed properly old. But responsibility for part of the defence of London had rested on his shoulders – and still did, to be sure – so it could be no wonder.

'You're looking better, Phineas,' the general said, standing so he could draw out a chair for his newly-arrived guest. His voice, at least, hadn't lost a drop of its strength.

'I _feel_ better, sir,' replied Hetherington as he sank down into one of the splendid cushioned chairs. It annoyed him that he was happy to be off his feet. His hand, at last, did not shake when he reached out to accept the cup of tea passed to him across the table. Dewe's remark suggested that he'd seen Hetherington while the lieutenant was properly ill. If he had visited, however, Hetherington had no memory of it. Unsurprisingly. 'It's a relief to be up and about again.'

'Good, good.' Dewe beamed, settling back in his own chair. 'I had begun to worry, however fleetingly, about the care you were supposed to be receiving. It pleases me to learn that worry was groundless.'

'So am I, sir.' Hetherington sipped at his tea, savouring the warmth as it ran down his throat. After weeks subsisting on porridge, stale bread, and water, tea was a real treat.

Something of a companionable silence crept in. Each of them devoted attention to their respective drinks. It was a pause Hetherington found himself grateful for, as it allowed him to regain some of his energy. The journey back to the Far East should, he hoped, grant him ample time to build his stamina up again.

'It surprised me to get your message,' the young engineer confessed, after a moment.

'Indeed? I can't think why.' Dewe grinned at his former student. 'I had heard you were in hospital, and wished to keep an eye on your progress. Ah, yes. M'sieur Römer sends his good wishes as well.' 

'Pass on my regards to him, sir.' Hetherington set down his tea. 'Was there anything you wanted me for in particular, sir? Now I'm fit again?'

'As it happens... there is. I'm in need of a young engineer with a good eye for detail, on an undertaking that carries with it some risk. Are you interested?'

The query was met first by a pause. Hetherington sat back in his chair, lips pursed thoughtfully. “An undertaking that carried with it some risk” could mean anything from the usual danger of wartime operations or it could mean an errand of particular hazard for which only volunteers were acceptable. In either case, he found himself intrigued. Danger was no more than part of the job, in his view – a sapper was as much at risk preparing a bridge to be blown in training as he was doing the same on the battlefield. Never mind that he knew Fred Dewe would never solicit a volunteer for anything run-of-the-mill.

'If it is a short undertaking, I am, yes.' The engineer nodded slowly. 'Then I want to return to my company.'

'My dear boy.' The grin slid from Dewe's face. With it went Hetherington's spirits. 'From what I understood, you were in no shape to pay much attention to newsreels or broadsheets, so you won't have heard this before now. Singapore fell. Eighteen Div is done for. Captured, some weeks ago.'

It... what? Hetherington blinked, quite overcome by this news. He had not heard a word of this before now. How had he failed to learn such an important thing? Had the nursing sisters kept it from him? They must have done. The whole division, made prisoners. He'd known things were bad when he'd been sent home, but as bad as wholesale surrender defied belief. Frosty, Sawyer, Osborn, and all the others... Hetherington closed his eyes. Much the better part of all the friends he had were 18 Division men. 

'Get a little of this down,' said Dewe, putting a tumbler into his hand.

He gulped it down without looking to see what it was. The brandy went down smooth and fiery. He opened his eyes. 'Did anyone get away?'

'A few. To all accounts, there was no hope of escape after the battle began. It was stand or fall, and sadly, the outcome was fall.'

It was all he could do not to bombard the old artilleryman with questions. But knowing details would do nothing to ease the hurt that sat, both hot and cold, in the pit of his stomach. It was enough that he knew it had happened without heaping on more pain. 'So long as we made a good showing of ourselves.'

'It was a gallant stand, to all accounts,' Dewe assured him.

Hetherington sagged in his chair, oblivious now to the finery of the room around him and the comfort of the chair itself. The whole ruddy _division_. It was a crumb of comfort to know they hadn't gone quietly. At the same time, a defensive stand inevitably meant casualties. A deal of them. 'Do we know – '

'There have been no clear reports, I'm afraid,' Dewe replied. 'We know only that the division surrendered on the Fifteenth last. We may not know who has survived and who has not until the end of the war.'

In its way, that was a better reassurance than cold fact in the moment. Hetherington nodded. Hope was a perilous thing but he was happier to hope than know right then that all of his friends were dead. He cradled his tea cup in his large hands and breathed quietly for a moment. Then he straightened up. He'd indulged himself quite long enough. He was an officer and must act as one.

'You mentioned a job, sir?'

Dewe nodded slightly. 'I did. It requires a young, keen eye and an engineer's expertise. A steady temperament is also necessary. Will you accept?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Even knowing none of the details?'

'Even so, sir. I have no company to return to. It's either this job or who knows how long kicking my heels here until I get another posting. What needs to be done?'

Instead of answering, Dewe glanced toward the door. A tall, elegantly slim young man in an RAF uniform had entered, his cap tucked casually under his left arm. His blond hair was perfectly combed and Brylcreemed and his mustache unmistakeably issue. The top button of his tunic was undone, permitting the top of a dark blue jumper to be visible. The pockets of his tunic were starched utterly flat and probably had never been used. He marched, with just a hint of swagger, toward their table and rather theatrically stamped his heels together once he'd reached it.

'Phineas,' said Dewe, 'Flight Lieutenant Francis Blake. Francis, Lieutenant Phineas Hetherington, Royal Engineers.'

Hetherington rose to offer his hand. Blake's grip was firm yet smooth. Unsurprisingly. Callouses were naturally abhorrent to crabs. 'Pleasure,' he said.

'Indeed,' replied Blake. 

'Sit down, my lad,' Dewe instructed, pouring tea into a third cup – which Hetherington was privately embarrassed to not have noticed being present earlier.

Blake drew out a chair and settled gracefully into it, setting his cap down neatly on the table in front of him. He lifted the tea cup as if it was the most delicate thing on earth and took a very slight sip. Even for Hetherington, who'd naturally been correctly brought up, the appearance of refinement seemed excessive.

'Francis is coming to the end of a short period of leave, after a busy time over France. Phineas is newly out of hospital. The pair of you will, I think, get on famously. Now. Since you're both here, I can read you in at the same time. No fannying about repeating myself. There have, in recent days, been a number of reports concerning the construction of rail lines toward the Belgian coast near Bruges, as well as what appear to be sizable artillery emplacements. We know of course that the Boche possess formidable railway guns. We duel with them almost daily. There are one or two rumours of a particularly monstrous one being stored in secret in the neighbourhood of Aalst, to the southeast of Ghent. It's our belief that they are seeking to establish a battery for the purposes of bombardment, perhaps in support of a renewed attempt at invasion.'

Dewe produced a map, which he unrolled and laid over the table after Hetherington had hastily cleared space. 'Formal resistance in Belgium is in its infancy, unfortunately. We therefore lack the manpower to undertake a proper recce of these rail lines or the purported monstrous rail gun. Two previous attempts to do so from the air failed. This will be our third.'

'Is it likely there might actually be an invasion attempt?'

'Who can say? There remains a certain amount of material and men on the French coast to make it a possibility. I don't care to tempt fate, myself.' Dewe indicated the map. 'Luftwaffe activity has been increasing during the day and they also appear to have been increasing their night-flight capabilities. However, it's believed the ideal time to undertake an aerial reccee is around sunrise. The aircraft chosen for this undertaking is fitted with all the necessary photographic kit. Blake here will fly and you, Phineas, will be responsible for taking the photographs and observing the site for any points of weakness. If your recce proves the existence of the rumoured gun, any information that will permit future offensive action is what we are after.'

This was straightforward enough. Hetherington leaned over the map to study it more closely. 'It seems simple enough.'

'Except for the Kammhuber Line,' Dewe told him. 'Don't mistake it. The Germans have built up a formidable range of air defences. It won't be easy in the least getting to your target.'

'What of getting home?'

Blake smiled lazily. 'That depends on how awake the Jerries are.'

'I admit the chances of a safe return are not what they should be,' Dewe confirmed.

'How good _are_ Jerry's air defences?'

'Good enough.' Dewe swept his finger over the map. 'There is a belt of anti-aircraft batteries and search light stations from here to here. There are also a number of radar stations, both inland and along the coast, here. You will have a fighter escort only as far as the coast. They will see you off then patrol the Channel to the limit of their fuel. A two-fighter patrol will be on station for the remainder of the day specifically to cover your return.'

'But if we don't make that _rendezvous_?'

Dewe took a couple photographs from his satchel and passed them across the table. 'Commit these two faces to memory. The first man is called Eustace, the second is Niels. It's best you don't know their surnames. In the event you find yourselves on the ground, do your best to seek one of them out. This is vitally important because, if you _are_ sent to ground, I want you to make every effort to assist whatever resistance group you can find in their activities.'

In other words, take photographs and get home if possible, but if you can't, survive and be useful while you escape and evade. Hetherington passed the two photographs to Blake. 'I take it we won't be carrying anything that might be useful for sabotage purposes.'

'Hardly. You'll have just your wits. Direct support of the resistance isn't the chief object. This time.' Dewe took a measured sip of coffee. 'We've learned from the last war. Intelligence, _good_ intelligence, is required to develop any sort of battle plan. Therefore, it's of considerable importance to find out just what the Boche are building so we might stop it.'

'It's a dashed big risk.'

A shadow passed over Dewe's face, very briefly emphasising the lines etched into it. 'All of war is a dashed big risk,' he observed.

'Yes, of course.' Hetherington felt his face warm. He'd meant no hurt, but perhaps caused some regardless. If anybody would know about big risks...

'When are we off, sir?' Blake asked, as if there'd been no lag in the conversation.

'Tonight, ideally. Your plane is waiting at Uxbridge. However, in the event the weather elects not to cooperate tonight, tomorrow is an acceptable alternative date.' 

Blake leaned slightly forward to set his empty tea cup onto the edge of the table. 'With your permission, sir, I'll be off then. I'll need to decide my flight plan and arrange other necessaries with our escorts.'

'Of course.'

'I shall expect you at Uxbridge no later than eleven o'clock this evening, Lieutenant. We will have a great deal to do before we depart,' the pilot said to Hetherington as he stood up and collected his cap.

The two soldiers watched him depart with that same hint of swagger. Hetherington wasn't sure of his feelings about the fellow yet, but thought he was inclined toward instinctive disdain. Blake seemed to him to be typical of the RAF – all puff and self-importance with not much beneath the surface and generally nowhere to be found when there was trouble. Certainly, the Blue Jobs had been entirely absent during the BEF's withdrawal to and later rescue from Dunkirk's beaches.

Well. There must be some redeeming value to him, or Fred Dewe would never have brought him in for this mission. He'd have to hope Blake could fly as well as he could style his hair.

'Have you eaten?'

'Not really, sir,' Hetherington replied, brought neatly back to the present by the question. 'It was porridge and a cuppa this morning, before I was sent on my way.'

'Hm.' Dewe glanced over his shoulder and a waiter appeared on silent feet. 'Two trench stews, please. Is there any fresh bread today?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Splendid. Half a loaf of bread as well.'

'Of course, sir. More tea?'

'Please.'

The waiter withdrew without a sound. 

'Trench stew?'

Dewe smiled slightly. 'You'll find out but I daresay you won't mind it. After whatever pitiful rations you were served in hospital, this will be quite an improvement.'

He hoped so. Not least because he had a feeling this would be his last meal, decent or otherwise, for at least a few days. Hetherington picked up his tea and tried not to let his mind drift back to thoughts about the news of 18 Division. There was a mission ahead of him. It'd do no good to devote mental energy ruminating on anything behind him.

'So,' said Dewe, again breaking into his thoughts. 'Tell me. What are your impressions of your new colleague?'

'Honestly, sir?' It was a tough question, in the main because his impressions of Blake couldn't be considered even halfway formed based on only a few minutes' conversation. What would he be like in a tight spot? He didn't relish the prospect of potentially finding out.

'Honestly.'

'Well,' the young engineer said with what he hoped was measured cool, 'I'll only be able to answer that when we come back from our little jaunt. If he's worth his pips, I might just stand him a drink after.'

It was a relief that Dewe laughed.

~

The RAF Jeep pulled up with a groan of tired brakes some dozen yards from the long, low parked aircraft. The driver pulled the handbrake up, cut the engine, and climbed silently out. Hetherington unfolded himself from the passenger's seat and was glad to feel the solid cement of the hardstand beneath his boots. The journey from the headquarters officers' mess to the flight line had been made entirely without headlights. Not that they were truly needed. A full moon glowed like an enormous streetlamp in the sky above.

He gazed up at the aircraft, noting a man up on the left wing. Others flitted around the airplane, going silently about their business. Ground crew. They too seemed quite accustomed to working by moonlight. But that could be no surprise. Blackout restrictions were particularly important in places like this. Hetherington stayed out of their way and wondered where, amidst all this brisk, quiet bustle Blake was. 

'Are you our passenger, sir?' A slightly reedy Midlands voice asked from behind him.

'Yes.'

His interrogator was a smallish man who stood out almost garishly because of the comparatively bright colour of his Mae West against his dark blue overalls. 'I'm Sergeant Stanhope, sir. Flight Lieutenant's over there. O-group with our escorts. I'm to get you rigged up.'

“Rigged up” meant being shown how to put on and secure his Mae West and parachute harness. It wasn't the most comfortable arrangment of kit he'd ever worn, not least because of his size. But Stanhope had the patience of a natural teacher. It wasn't long before Hetherington was correctly dressed, down even to a fur-lined flying helmet.

'It'll be cold up there, sir. Besides. You'll need it to plug into the intercom,' Stanhope told him. 'Sure you don't want an Irvin too?'

'I've got a jumper on, Sergeant,' was Hetherington's reply, since he thought he could guess what an “Irvin” was.

'All right, sir. There, that's the boss.'

It was indeed Blake, striding toward them around the tail of the plane. He was dressed similarly to Stanhope, with the rather jaunty addition of a scarf tucked neatly around his neck beneath his Mae West. 'All in order, Sergeant?'

'All in order, sir.'

'Good.' The pilot glanced at his watch. Its illuminated dial glowed almost dangerously but it was quickly out of sight again beneath his sleeve. 'We're off in thirty minutes. Let's load up.'

'Thirty minutes? I thought the plan was before sunrise.'

'That plan has changed, I'm afraid. We're to take off shortly after a force bound for France and then make our way along the Channel toward our target. The hope is that the other force will keep Jerry's air defences occupied.'

'Except we're bound for Belgium.'

Blake shrugged. 'It's the best we can do. It will take us around two hours, all being calm, to reach Bruges. Leaving promptly at midnight means we get over target ideally shortly after two. It's best to take advantage of this moon while we can.'

That made sense. Hetherington nodded. 'Let's go, then.'

'The cockpit hatch is up there. Follow me.' Blake hoisted himself up onto the low side of the wing and slung himself effortlessly upward to an opening in the top of the fuselage, right above the cockpit. It looked easy enough. The difficulty in manoeuvring his bulk, even diminished as it was, speedily became apparent. At least Blake had foreseen this and not settled immediately into the pilot's seat below the open hatch.

'Right,' said Blake, as he squeezed past Hetherington to settle into his seat and begin starting up the airplane's engines. 'The camera is fitted in the nose, just down there. It's a motorised unit specially for night operations. The control unit is just there. You can move the camera around and take snaps using that. It can take twenty-eight snaps per roll. There's a fixed camera in the bomb bay that Sergeant Stanhope will operate.'

Hetherington looked over the control unit. His experience with photography equipment was limited but he had faith in his ability to learn on the fly. 'Is there extra film aboard?'

'No. Here, plug in.' Blake indicated the long wire fixed to his helmet. The left engine was spooling up, the propeller being spun manually by one of the ground crew. A second later, it came, coughing, to life. The rumble of just one engine made it damned difficult to hear.

'Plug in there!' The pilot barked, pointing at an input jack near where Hethterington was crouched.

That was better. The intercom was laced with an undercurrent of static but that was preferable to shouting over the engines. Particularly now the right engine was being cranked. Hetherington shifted to sit in what had to be the navigator's seat and watched as Blake fiddled with the levers and knobs arrayed around him.

'Your escape hatch is right under the chart table, through there. If we get in a bind and have to ditch, don't faff about. Pop it open and go.'

'Right.'

The engines were both even in pitch, sounding eager to get moving. Blake checked his instruments, adjusted something, then nodded. 'That's as good as it'll be, I think. What's the time?'

'Ten minutes till midnight.'

'Bang on the mark. Not bad.' At Hetherington's questioning glance, the pilot grinned. 'I don't usually fly Blenheims, you know. Spitfires are rather more my style.'

Something down deep in Hetherington's insides twisted up on itself. Of all the things Blake could possibly have said, _that_ was the least welcome. But he mustered up a grin in return and reminded himself that Dewe wouldn't have brought the crab in for this if he wasn't the right sort for the job. He settled his gaze forward and breathed quietly out. Having a fighter pilot at the controls of a bomber might not be a bad thing, if they got in a scrape. Or so he hoped.

'That's us off now,' Blake said suddenly. The plane began to roll forward, bound unhurriedly for the long straight ribbon of runway just ahead.

Hetherington checked his watch. It was five minutes till midnight. If nothing else, Blake had a sharp natural sense for time. He tried to relax as the Blenheim taxied onto the runway. A pair of Hawker Hurricanes were lined up ahead of them, in fact just beginning their take-offs. Blake eased the throttles back and the Blenheim glided to a stop. It wasn't a long pause. Within a minute, the bomber was back in motion, the rumble of the engines increasing to a mighty roar. It gathered speed down the runway until first its tail and then its front lifted from the ground. The varied shadows of the airfield and the buildings surrounding it receded with unnerving speed. This was, Hetherington decided, absolutely not the opportune time to admit that he might just become sick. Especially not in view of what Blake saw fit to say next.

'That,' declared the pilot with open satisfaction, 'is simply the finest feeling in the world.'

It was undoubtedly best to attempt to admire the stars as the Blenheim climbed toward them, thought Hetherington. So he did.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The sea glittered below, untold moon-soaked diamonds stretching away to the hazy dark horizon to the left and toward the long smear of coastline to the right. Above them, the moon itself gleamed like a well-polished silver button. As scenery, it was damned idyllic. Except of course for the noise of the engines. Well. In Francis Blake's estimation, that steady drone was as much part of the simple beauty of the moment as the view. He could almost forget that this wasn't a pleasure flight.

It was two hours since they'd taken off. About one hour since they'd passed over the mouth of the Thames. A headwind slowed them until Blake altered course to cross over Margate. From then onward, it'd been reasonably calm. At least for them. Far off to the west, the sky was an unsettling roil of anti-aircraft fire and searchlights. He wished all the best to the brave chaps who were in the middle of that.

He glanced out the right cockpit window and eased the control yoke over a little. The Blenheim's left wing lifted obediently to begin a gentle turn toward land. His eyes darted over the fuel gauges before he levelled the bomber out again on its new heading. There was enough in the tanks to get them over target to take all the snaps they needed and then to get home again. But that was the limit. They'd have no time to faff about.

'We'll be over Belgium shortly,' Blake informed the others over the intercom. 'Time to target, twenty minutes.'

The Pongo engineer lieutenant shifted off the navigator's seat and went down into the nose. He'd hardly said a word since take-off. If Blake was any judge, he was manfully battling airsickness – admittedly not an uncommon affliction amongst those who'd never before been in an aeroplane. So long as he wasn't actively sick, it wasn't a matter worth mentioning.

A light flashed ahead of them, perhaps two degrees off the nose, for no more than a heartbeat. Blake looked up instinctively, scanning the skies above for any sign of enemy interceptors. There were none that he could spot but that meant nothing.

'Any sign of Jerry, Sergeant?'

'Not a sniff, sir. The boys over France probably have them all to themselves.'

Blake grinned slightly. 'Don't count on it. Keep a weather eye out.'

The gleaming sea became a shifting pearlescent ribbon as it lapped against the Belgian coast. A scattering of lights virtually on the edge of the narrow smudge of beach was Ostend. Blake had no intention of flying over the city. The Germans would naturally concentrate air defences around populated areas. Indeed, they probably had already spotted the lone Blenheim. No reason to make the hunt easy, however. _Left hand down a bit, hold for a few seconds, then level out._ The bomber passed over the beach boundary between sea and land some minutes later, safely removed from the immediate danger Ostend posed.

Or not. Long flashes of light were reaching up toward them from the ground. Moments later, the searchlights were piercing the sky with their harsh, lethal beams. There it was, he thought, and pushed the control yoke down, tipping the Blenheim into a long, shallow dive. Jerry must've been asleep! How unsporting of him. But he was awake now and so were his guns. Shells began bursting above them as the guncrews down below went about the business of getting the range. Blake levelled the dive, adjusted throttle, and immediately began a climb, angling southeast by several degrees. In five minutes and no more, he'd alter this course to put them on an more easterly heading and on a lower altitude. Whatever it took to keep the radar-guided guncrews guessing.

'Fun and games now, eh?'

Nobody answered, though Stanhope chuckled.

The sky around them was now a nervy, ear-numbing light show. Tracers flicked up in steady streams and HE shells with variously-timed fuses were exploding above and below. Once or twice, harmless buffets of air rattled the bomber. Blake put the bomber into a turn east and simultaneously nudged the nose down toward the ground. It was important not to make it obvious where they were heading but he had to be mindful of fuel consumption as well. Nobody would thank him for keeping them from being shot down if they ran out of fuel and had to bail out anyway.

'Visitors,' Stanhope sang out over the intercom. 'Two bandits, high up on our seven o'clock.'

'Timely,' Blake observed, dipping the Blenhim's nose lower. 'One-Oh-Nines?'

'Shrikes,' was the reply.

Lovely. Blake considered his options. There was still a good distance between them and their target. Focke-Wulfs were uncomfortably fast fighters. He could do one of perhaps three things. First, he could abandon evasive manouevring and fly a direct line to Aalst. Doing that put them at pretty severe danger from the intercepting fighters and the AA guns. Second, he could continue evasive manouevres and try to give Stanhope every opportunity to harass their pursuers. Third, and least palatable, was to attempt to dogfight the two German fighters.

Or there was a fourth option.

'We're going to the deck, chaps.'

The Blenheim's nose dipped sharply toward the earth. Up front, Lieutenant Hetherington coughed. Or that's what Blake decided that sound to be. He adjusted pitch then pushed the throttles forward. What they needed was speed. Even within four hundred feet of the ground, fast was better. They couldn't outrun the two 190s of course but if he could just get them over Aalst, that'd be all right. Hetherington had better be ready to take those photographs.

Tracers stabbed down at them from above and behind. The 190s were in range. Answering fire from Stanhope in the dorsal turret momentarily put the Jerries off, but they'd be back like persistent gnats.

'The rail line's below us,' the Pongo said, sounding queasy. 'I can see a couple trains.'

Pity they weren't carrying a bomb load, Blake thought. This would be a prime opportunity to put Jerry's nose out of joint. He pulled the control yoke back a fraction to regain some altitude and promptly banked into a tight rightward turn. Down this low, the 88s couldn't reach them but there were plenty of smaller guns that could. Hell. Even a lucky rifle shot had the potential to bring them down.

Blake glanced out the side window. The rail line was indeed below them. He levelled out, climbed a little more, levelled again, and winced as tracers once again rained down at them. The two 190s were staying back enough to keep the bomber within their gunsights. Well, he'd do something about that. He closed throttles and stood the bomber up nearly onto its left wing, sweeping sharply away as the two fighters raced on past, uselessly firing into empty airspace.

He couldn't pull that sort of trick a second time, however, and not just because it wouldn't work again. The Blenheim was a sturdy enough aircraft but it wasn't designed to dance around. Moreover, the engines could only be pushed so hard. He looked quickly out both side windows and was relieved to see both propellers still spinning normally. He looked next at the instrument panel. All was still good there as well. Right. Having bought them precious seconds, he wouldn't squander them.

'Be ready on that camera,' he barked over the intercom as he completed the loop and levelled back out to follow the rail line. There was some manner of goods yard away ahead. If that wasn't where this supposed rail gun was being kept...

'They're comin' round again!' Sergeant Stanhope called cheerfully over the intercom. 'Drinks are on you if I wing one of 'em, sir.'

'Deal!'

The flight sergeant's guns started up again, a rumbling chatter that countered the crackling of German flak guns and the two 190s both trying to get a good bead on the bomber. Blake spared a glance at the fuel gauge. This might be a near thing. The Blenheim had a decent range but he was asking a lot of it.

'What's down there?'

'Goods yard! I think. Or sidings. Some long buildings. Locomotives, goods wagons, a lot of angry Boch.'

That was an understatement. Incoming ack-ack from the ground was getting heavier. The bomber was shuddering and likely not just from the air streaming past it. He didn't need any better sign that the rail gun they sought was probably here. Trouble was, there was too much cityscape around the goods yard. That wasn't Aalst below them. Ghent? It had to be. But that meant either Fred Dewe's intelligence was wrong or the Germans had moved the rail gun.

'Get ready on that camera,' Blake warned. 'I'm going to make another pass, low and fast. Get all the snaps you can. We won't get another bite at this cherry tonight.'

'Right-o.'

They were streaking over rooftops now, nearly low enough to clip top of a brick clock tower with the right wing. Blake pulled up hard, managing to deceive one of the Jerry pilots into unleashing a burst of fire into a stone-built building below. What he needed was distance, both to get lined up for a good return pass and to make the pursuing 190s think he was off somewhere else. He _really_ wouldn't mind having a couple five-hundred pounders loaded into the bomb bay. What a coup it'd be if they could take this monstrous rail gun out of action, here and now!

'Right, chaps, here we go,' he said, pushing useless thoughts of glory from his head. They were here to recce and nothing else. He settled the Blenheim onto a line that would take it directly over the goods yard and pushed the throttles open all the way. The engines howled and the airspeed needle jumped toward the red. This was it.

Stanhope's guns were hardly silent now. The 190s must be back. Blake focussed his attention completely forward, nudging the bomber's nose downward a hair to give Hetherington's camera a better angle. Buildings and vehicles whipped past too quickly to notice. An AA gun emplacement almost directly below them tried valiantly to fire into the bomber's belly as it roared over them, but the crew couldn't train their gun around in time.

The goods yard flashed by below next. Individual Jerries on the tracks were cutting loose with their personal weapons. A second later, the Blenheim was over open countryside. Blake pulled the yoke in to his chest immediately and tried not to cringe at the high-pitched whine as the engines strained to meet the demands being heaped on them. Now that the job was done, they needed as much altitude as they could get.

Something slapped the plane. Slapped it hard. The metal fuselage beneath him bucked. His eyes fixed at once on the instrument panel but his ears clued him in to the damage first. The left engine was sputtering, the propeller was wobbling, and that engine's RPM was plummeting. A single look confirmed it. Oil was streaming out of the cowlings. Blake's hand went to the carburettor cut-out levers, with a quick glance to ensure he was choosing the correct one. He pulled it and the left engine went quiet, its propeller shuddering to a halt. Blast. Without that engine, there were no hydraulics. Which meant the landing gear would need lowering by hand.

Another slap to the plane, this time closer to the tail, made the Blenheim shudder afresh. From the dorsal turret came Stanhope's voice, still somehow cheerful. 'Jerry's given us a lovely new skylight back here! Nice of him!'

Nice indeed. Blake tested the rudder and was relieved to feel it respond. If he lost the ability to control that, their goose'd be properly cooked. As it was, with a hole in the fuselage and only one engine, it was long odds on reaching the Channel again. His feet were now busier on the rudder pedals and it was necessary to adjust pitch and revs for the good right engine. Throttle back, check trim, watch instruments. Fuel was going fast. Blake flicked the switch that cut off the left wing fuel tanks. The fuel gauge needle stopped its rapid downward sweep. That was something. A small something.

'Check parachutes,' he told the others. 'Left engine's out. Left wing fuel tanks are out. We might make it back to Dover but I wouldn't bet on it.'

Altitude. That was their only hope. Blenheims were phenomenal gliders. If he could get them high enough, there was a chance, a slim one, of gliding toward home. If. He took a breath, set the carburettor air to Warm, and eased the yoke back. Nothing else was important now. Not the ongoing fire from the German flak guns, not the dogged pursuit of the two Focke-Wulf fighters. All that mattered was getting out of hostile airspace. He checked his airspeed, then his fuel, and made what he hoped wouldn't be a fatal miscalculation. He eased the right throttle open.

'Trouble!' Stanhope cried.

An instant later, the bomber shook under a solid burst of fire. Blake's feet sank to the deck on the rudder pedals. He twisted around as much as he could to see a great gaping hole in the fuselage behind him. If that wasn't bad enough, the dorsal turret canopy was gone and its guns abruptly silent.

'I'm hit, sir,' Stanhope reported, before the question could be asked. 'Clean through the wing. They've wrecked my guns.'

Blake's eyes swept over his instruments. His mind flickered through all the facts. Left engine was out. Left wing fuel supply was cut off. Hydraulics were out. Fuel was holding. Right engine was holding. Dorsal fuselage was damaged. Rudder was out. Rear guns were out. One wounded man. No viable defences. Reduced manouevrability. Still possible to land if necessary.

He craned his neck to see above, in an attempt to spot the harassing 190s. There was no doubt they were circling around for another pass. Blake levelled the bomber and again checked his gauges. In the distance, he could see the Channel. It glittered welcomingly amid the flashes and bursts of ack-ack. Were those two Hawker Hurricanes still patrolling? Blake set his jaw. There was but one way to find out.

'We're going to run for it,' he declared and pushed the throttle fully open.


	3. Chapter 3

  
It was never going to be easy. That had been plain enough. All the same, Hetherington felt horribly like this would be his last night on earth. Nobody had warned him the flight might be less than level. Indeed, nobody had even hinted it _could_ be, never mind how topsy-turvy it actually was. He held onto the chart table as the Blenheim's nose tipped heavenward and willed the contents of his stomach to remain where they were. Up until the left engine was shot out, Blake had been flinging the bomber around the sky like it was a toy. Now they were reduced to one engine and making a “run for it”. That one engine was roaring with the sort of crackling volume that had to presage imminent disaster.

Worse, the Boche were still focussing all of their attention on the Blenheim. Partial impacts and air shocks from near-misses buffeted the wounded aeroplane. This was more than the aircraft itself could take, surely. His imagination supplied him with gruesome images of the bomber coming apart at the rivets, stressed beyond the point of failure, of the engines crumbling into lethal, fiery, fuel-filled comets, of the deck literally giving way beneath his feet to send him plummeting to the earth far below, of the inevitable explosion in the fuel tanks which would be channelled fore and aft within the fuselage – 

He felt his stomach lurch and bit down hard on the inside of his lip. Bile burned hot and sharp in his throat. But he wasn't going to be sick. He wasn't. There was no way he'd give these crabs the satisfaction! Hetherington swallowed the bitter sear of impending sick and thought determinedly of Bowland Fells. It helped to remember many half-term afternoons roaming the moors and valleys, ever in search of Viking artefacts. As soon as this job was over, he resolved to wrangle some leave and go straight home. Never before had he yearned so strongly or suddenly for the comfortable solidity of the fells. 

The Blenheim shuddered. Badly. Something solid had smashed into its belly, seemingly right beneath Hetherington's boots. He recoiled instinctively, even though there was literally nowhere for him to go to escape from the danger. A heartbeat later he became aware of the icy whistling scalpel of wind through the Perspex almost bang ahead of him. It took all of his self-control not to scramble backward to the cockpit. He made himself look over the camera. This was a mistake. He saw immediately the crack that ran up the side of the case, the missing lens of the camera itself. This led him to look down at the deck itself. Which was less than wise, for the thick metal deck beneath the chart table was buckled slightly inward around a hole roughly half the size of his fist.

'The nose is hit!' He called over the intercom. It startled him to note how calm his own voice sounded in his ears and hoped the others noticed. 'Camera's ruined.'

'Pull the film anyway,' Blake instructed. 'Be quick! I've got to take evasive measures.'

Hetherington grabbed mostly-blindly for the camera's case, hoping like hell he knew how to get the film roll out. Ah! That was it. He gently wrestled the roll out of the case and did his best to examine it, as the Blenheim canted dizzyingly to the left and began to climb. The shift in elevation and balance sent Hetherington blundering into the chart table and then, when Blake levelled them abruptly out, backward into the intact Perspex and metal side of the nose. Then suddenly it was down toward the earth again. Whatever balance the engineer might have hoped to cling to was snatched from him and he tumbled gracelessly onto the deck.

Except it wasn't the deck. Not completely. The better part of his weight came down on the escape hatch. The door held for no more than a long breath, or perhaps a dozen heartbeats. Indeed, Hetherington was gathering his wits to begin an undignified scramble for the cockpit when the hatch door gave way beneath him. The wind whipping by the dancing Blenheim seized gleefully at his legs, tugging him free of the aircraft. He got one hand on the edge of the deck but it was half a second's reprieve. His bulk slithered effortlessly down through the opening and into cold, empty, hostile sky. There was just one final cruel joke playing out in the span of an eternal two seconds and that was the span of time in which the long cable of his headset remained connected to the bomber.

Therefore, he heard Blake's exclamation of 'Oh bugger!' quite clearly before the cable snapped and the last tangible link to the only hope of escape and safety was broken.

~

The howl of wind now passing through the bomber made it impossible to hear anything but the static in his headset. Blake needed just one glance down into the nose to know exactly what had happened. The words that burned in his throat were coarse but he kept them unaired. Cursing at horrendous bad luck did nothing to change that luck. Only action could achieve that. He'd learned that very much the hard way. There was one thing to do. One thing only. That was to close the throttle as sharply as the right engine could tolerate, adjust pitch and revs at the same pace, and put the Blenheim over into a wobbling, unsteady right turn. 

'He's going straight down, sir,' Stanhope reported. 'No 'chute – ah, there he goes. He's cracked it. He's under his brolly now.'

That was a relief. Blake tipped the bomber fully onto its right wing and glanced out the side window. The white circle of Hetherington's parachute drifted earthward, some two miles behind them now. As long as he was under canopy, the pongo engineer was utterly defenceless. Blake was rather too familiar with the scenario most likely to develop as a result, once the ack-ack gun crews on the ground realised this. He had no concerns about the pilots of the 190s. Airmen of either side had a pretty clear sense of honour.

'Prepare to abandon aircraft,' he told Stanhope.

'But I'm already in the Club, sir!'

Blake grinned. He'd noted the small caterpillar pin on the flight sergeant's tunic earlier in the day. He too had such a pin, but he made it a point never to wear it on a trip. Bad luck and all that. 'Consider this a bar for it.'

'Pongo owes us two drinks each for this.'

Assuming they got home before the end of the war, anyway. Or were even able to find the engineer officer again. Blake levelled out, making fuller use of the bomber's intact flaps than he liked. He immediately tipped the nose down into a dive, again turned to the right, then levelled. They were more or less back on the heading they'd been following when Hetherington inadvertently ditched, close to being directly over the lieutenant as he descended. Time to be quick. 

He tugged his parachute pack out from beneath him and clipped it to his chest, then reached up to open the cockpit roof hatch and eased himself carefully out of his seat so he could stand on it. He was glad for his thick gloves, for the wind screaming past was frigid and unwelcoming. He curled his fingers around the cable of his headset and prepared to yank it free. Directly aft, Sergeant Stanhope was standing in the shattered remnants of his gun turret. They were ready. 

'On my mark...' Blake used the toe of his boot to open the throttle nearly to full. One second. Two seconds. _Three_.

'Jump!'

He jerked his hand, pulling free his headset cable, and in the same instant leaped upward. His exit was not wholly smooth for he deliberately angled himself toward the much safer left wing and succeeded in colliding partially with the engine cowling as he tumbled clear. But he was away and so was Stanhope. The Blenheim continued on toward the distant sea, its trajectory very gradually curving earthward without anyone at the controls to keep it level. It pained Blake on a cellular level to abandon an airworthy plane, but planes could be replaced. Good men could not. He waited until a count of five before tugging at his ripcord.

There were exactly two seconds of further freefall before his earthward descent was checked with a sudden, jarring jerk. Blake looked up to check that his risers were clear of each other and the canopy was fully open. All was in order. He looked around for Stanhope and spotted him drifting under canopy perhaps three hundred metres away. Well below them and to the right was Lieutenant Hetherington.

The two Focke-Wulfs screamed past, one of them sportingly waggling his wings. They both left the uncrewed Blenehim alone. Their night's work was done. The AA guns on the ground continued to fire, however, and now the bomber was flying a straight, mostly level, path, they soon had it zeroed. Before a minute was out, the Blenheim ceased to be a lovely aircraft and became instead a burning earthbound meteor, its right engine trailing flame and heavy smoke. Blake couldn't watch its demise. He concentrated instead on controlling his descent so he didn't land in what looked like a canal. This, he thought wryly, was not going to look good at all in his Operations Record Book.

~

It didn't occur to him until the snow-crusted ground was rushing up to greet him that he had no idea whatever how to correctly land beneath a parachute. Brief but scorching panic rose inside him. Then he pressed his knees together, thinking chiefly of his ankles, and on impact, let himself flop as bonelessly as possible to the snow. It was still painful but not unbearably so. His problems weren't over. The parachute flapped for a second before catching the wind and dragging him along the ground. Panic returned; he wrestled with the quick-release on his harness until it came free and he was able to flail himself out of the webbing.

Only then, immobile and safe, did Hetherington take a long moment to take stock of his altered situation. He was alone and unarmed in enemy territory. He spoke at best three words of Dutch. His French was reasonably solid but far from perfect. He had no German at all. He was also in possession of a roll of film which might or might not be salvageable. That was something he had to keep from the Boche at all costs. Never mind that lying on the snow was causing the snow to melt under him and seep into his clothes. He sighed, tucked the film roll into his jacket, and got a little gingerly to his feet. The last thing he wanted was to catch cold. Particularly on an uncomfortably icy night as this.

The first thing to do was gather up his parachute and stuff it as best as he could back into its pack. There was no doubt the Boche knew somebody had bailed out of the Blenheim. He wasn't about to make it easy for them to find out where he'd landed. That was his job; make nothing easy for the enemy. So he slipped the harness partially back on, looked skyward to get his bearings from the moon, and was shocked to see two other parachutes descending toward him. Well. Not toward him but near enough that he was in no doubt what those two blessed fools were about.

Cover! His soldier's instinct gave him a clip round the ears, jarring him back to reality. Get out of the open. He turned and made tracks for a hedgerow some twenty metres off. It'd be safer to wait for the two crabs there. Or at least to determine where they were most likely going to land and then try to pick a direct path to one or the other. It was important not to remain still too long either, Hetherington realised. He couldn't afford a chill. So once in cover, he crept along the hedgerow and tried to ignore the molasses-like feeling of weariness sinking into him.

The first crab was coming down close enough that he reckoned it was worth the risk to stand back in the open and wave to catch the fellow's attention. An answering wave told him he'd shortly be in welcome company. The second was farther away, on the opposite side of a stand of trees. Hetherington crouched beside the hedgerow to wait and tried to keep from shivering.

'It's unlucky to bail out of an aeroplane that's not going down, sir,' Sergeant Stanhope informed him cheerfully, some minutes later. The flight sergeant carried his own repacked parachute and seemed oblivious to the tattered sleeve of his overalls and the slow leak of blood soaking into the wool serge.

'I'll remember that for next time, Sergeant.' Damn him if he didn't like this sergeant! Hetherington grinned briefly. 'Lieutenant Blake is coming down over there. We'd better go join him before the Boche do.'

They squeezed themselves through the hedgerow and made their way along the canal, their progress cautious. Neither took any comfort from the apparent absence of people in the immediate vicinity. The distant rolling boom of an explosion and the bright sear of fire against the clear black sky told them that the area would soon be covered with German search parties. Nobody could've missed spotting the aircrew as they floated to earth. Especially, Hetherington realised, since they had come down not all that far from a village of some kind. So distance from this place was the priority, and sooner the better.

There was however a problem. The canal was too wide to jump or vault. Nor was it entirely frozen over. It looked like a boat had recently come through to break up the ice pack. The only nearby bridge was the rail bridge, which he knew must be avoided unless direly necessary. There were no boats or other means by which to cross it, either. Not without coming far too close to that village. Which was out of the question. They all knew their duty was to escape and evade, not willingly offer themselves up for capture. But how to get Blake onto the correct side of the canal? Hetherington looked around carefully but could spot nothing they could use to manufacture a temporary bridge, either. Bother. They were in a proper bind.

'Nothing to it, chaps,' Blake called across the canal. 'I'm not averse to a little swim.'

Except that swimming in this cold was not exactly wise. Hetherington shook his head. 'Don't be daft, man. It's too cold for that!'

But Blake was stripping off his clothes, heedless of that or other objection. He was a single-minded sod, wasn't he? Hetherington glanced at Stanhope, who shrugged. Well, if the pilot was that determined, perhaps there was a glimmer of hope this whole enterprise would end acceptably. Both he and Stanhope were reduced to watching with varying concern as Blake folded his clothes, piled them atop his parachute pack, and carried the lot to the edge of the canal. He stepped cautiously down the shallow bank to ease into the icy water, keeping his parachute pack in front of him. It served capably as a barrier between the water and his clothes. Clever thinking.

Both he and Stanhope were obliged to help Blake up the slippery bank once the pilot reached it. Blake was shivering and dripping, but he determinedly toweled himself off using his scarf before dressing with understandable haste. Just as well. The noise of engines in the semi-distance meant they had to get a wriggle on.

'Our best chance is that farm,' Blake said, indicating the shadowy cluster of buildings that was much too close to the rail line for Hetherington's liking.

'Are you sure?'

The pilot grinned gamely. He was still slightly shivering. 'Positive. Let's be about it, chaps. Time's not our friend.'

They set off, taking care to get onto a narrow track that ran along the canal. It was a packed down path, even partially snowed over, which ought to help conceal their passage. Blake led, Stanhope followed, and Hetherington brought up the rear. He wasn't sure of the wisdom of that. Not least because of the increasing blanket of weariness wrapping itself around him. It was cold, terribly cold, and he could feel frost beginning to settle in his toes and fingers as well. He was glad for the fur-lined leather flying helmet he still wore. Even with the approaching danger of German soldiers, he reckoned the choice to make for that farm was indeed their best chance. 

The farm buildings were dark. A line of trees separated an open snowy field from the farm yard itself. The ground was increasingly churned up and the going more difficult, but this was good for them. Concealing their tracks was vitally important. Even now they were close enough to the long brick-built barn, they could not be careless. Blake's thinking was clear: find somewhere in the barn to hide and hope that nobody looked too closely for them. It was a risky plan but they had few better options. Even though the Boche would come straight to this very farm at the start of their search.

Then a dog began to bark. Loud, insistent barking. Hetherington slowed, looked around for any sign of the farmer. Where there was a dog on a farm, the farmer was never far away. He wasn't wrong.

'Stop there!' A coarse voice barked in thick French. 'Do not move!'

'English, we're English,' Hetherington replied in the same language.

'Speak for yourself,' he heard Blake observe. He ignored that.

The farmer, a leanly-muscled young man in a thick wool jumper and cap, eyed them with open suspicion. His hands were empty but that was no reassurance. 'It is your plane they have shot down?'

'Yes. We must get away from here. The Germans are coming.'

'We know. The Germans, they are very quick to search for airmen. Come. You must not wste time.' The farmer gestured at a dark, unaromatic heap at the back of the barn.

'You're out of your mind!'

'It is this or Stalag,' replied the farmer. He strode for the dung heap where, with the aid of a shovel, revealed a stout wooden door. He used the tip of the shovel to lever this open then stood aside with an expectant frown. In the distance, growing closer, was the rumble of several engines. Headlights were visible on the road to the south. This or the Stalag. It was no choice at all and they knew it. 

'Come on, chaps,' said Blake, stepping fearlessly forward. 'At least it'll be warm!'

That was true. Still. Warmth shouldn't come completely at the expense of one's olfactory senses. But there truly was no other option. Not in the immediate moment. This or the Stalag. If they were captured, they'd be searched and that would mean the precious roll of film tucked inside Hetherington's jacket would be discovered. The danger then became either being shot as spies or tipping off the Boche to their purpose. Of course, they'd have to be totally thick not to have sussed the aircrew's purpose given their antics over Ghent. 

Avoiding capture was the only thing to do. This film had to get back to Fred Dewe. There was simply no way around it. More than that, the young engineer recalled, Dewe had told them his expectations should they be shot down. Avoid capture and create mischief. Which would be impossible if he didn't join his companions in the depths of that dung heap. So Hetherington drew in one last breath of clean, crisp air, then plunged into the pungent darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Stanhope's mention of being a member of "the Club" is a reference to the Caterpillar Club, which in the war years was an informal association within the RAF for aircrew who survived abandoning their aircraft by use of their parachutes. Aircrew received a pin in the shape of a caterpillar; the reasoning being, caterpillars create silk and silk was, until 1943, used to make parachutes. (per http://natureonline.com/37/56-ap4-glossary.html)
> 
> More broadly, the Caterpillar Club came into being in 1922 and exists today, with the same purpose and pin-giving tradition as mentioned above.


End file.
